


walk the nightmare out the door

by Red (S_Hylor)



Series: Bingo Round 1 2019 [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Dark, Dark Tony Stark, Demon Tony Stark, Demonic Possession, Demons, Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Murder, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Steve/Brock abusive relationship, Suicide, not towards Steve though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 22:42:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19895542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Hylor/pseuds/Red
Summary: After an eternity damned in Hell, Tony gets sent to Earth on a mission. In order to stay on Earth, he must possess a host.Tony hadn't expected to find someone so evil outside of Hell; then he'd seen the inside of Brock Rumlow's mind.He hadn't expected to fall in love either; then he'd gotten to know Steve Rogers.





	walk the nightmare out the door

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my Stony Bingo card for the square "evil exes". 
> 
> Please heed the tags. See end note for spoiler filled warning if you would like. 
> 
> Thanks to [athletiger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/athletiger/pseuds/athletiger) and [quandong_crumble](http://archiveofourown.org/users/quandong_crumble/pseuds/quandong_crumble) for the beta work and proof reading.
> 
> The title comes from the song "Mr. Weinstein Will See You Now" by Amanda Palmer & Jasmine Power.

He's been in hell long enough that he's forgotten the name he had before he died. It doesn't matter anyway; those that call him call him various names, tied to the rack, whipped and torn. It’s become the norm. He'd thought he'd been faced with hell while he was on Earth, but no one knows just how bad it really is.

For years pain and fire is all he knows. 

Then he gets the chance, to go back to Earth. Not to be human, just the bad facsimile of one. 

He flies free of hell, spinning wildly, whooping as he goes. It's the most freedom he's felt in aeons. He soars over places that look foreign with time, even though they used to be home. He spins past them, seeking out weak, unguarded minds, bodies he could take, wear like suits. It has been so long since he's walked and breathed air that doesn't smell like sulphur, copper and burning flesh. 

There are so many bodies to choose from, it's like flicking through clothes on a rack. So many to choose from, so he has no idea what draws him to the man he picks. There's just something about him, that makes him pick him instead of the thousands of others that he's already bypassed. 

He swoops down, diving into the body, pushing his way beneath skin and wrapping around muscle, sinew and bones. It stings, like blades and whips slicing into his skin as he settles, rearranging himself back into a human shape. The man whose body he takes is screaming internally, fighting back against him, but he isn't strong enough. Not strong enough to take him. He who has been without body and form for so long. He who needs to remember what it is like to breathe, to smell, to touch things that don't burn him. 

Squashing his host's consciousness right down into the depths of his mind, he spreads through synapses and neural pathways, taking over motor control, trying to remember how bodies even work as he opens his eyes and blinks the world into focus. 

Eyesight is something he's grown unfamiliar with, it takes a while to get used to the limited scope, the limited distance, and the brightness of colours. Colours, stark and vibrant, swirl and dance together. 

Blue like the sky, the ocean, Arctic ice; he isn't sure how to describe it, but he wants to reach out and run his fingers through the colour, see if it is a cold as it looks. 

A pale off white like imperfect porcelain. Fine hair like spiderweb cracks that he wants to smooth his fingers over, cherish the beauty in its frailty. 

Red, deeper than fire, rich and dark like blood. He can nearly feel it beating like a pulse beneath his fingers. That coats the back of his fingers, stains his knuckles and is smeared across frail porcelain. 

Red runs like a river from a crooked nose, marred black and blue with bruises, swelling and pressing against the soft porcelain. Red drips from his hand as everything snaps into perfect focus. Wide blue eyes stare at him in challenge, despite the fear in them. He looks at the hands he's just taken control of, at the damage they'd inflicted before he got there, and he knows, demon or not, the conscious screaming at him from within is more evil than he ever will be. 

It comes in perfect clarity then, the scene playing out to the screaming consciousness trying to push him back out, bitter and evil thoughts shoving at his burning hold on the body. There's a man on the floor in front of him, blood covering his face, broken nose, eye going black, lip split. 

He presses a hand under his chin, cupped to catch the blood, tipping his head back slightly, eyeing him suspiciously. "You finished?" 

There's defiance in his voice, even as he grips the kitchen counter and tries to pull himself up to feet. 

He feels himself frozen there, burning cold instead of hot for once, feels the steady beat of  _ show that little bitch what he gets when he gets uppity _ trying to push through from the back of his mind. He can feel his newly acquired hands starting to shake, flecks of the man's blood falling onto the grey tiles beneath his feet. 

He wants to run, to get away from the evil snarling and snapping and trying to take control again, but he knows if he leaves, then there will be nothing stopping his host from beating the man until he doesn't stand up again. 

He jerks backwards, backpedaling so fast he crashes into something. He doesn’t know what he’s hit, feels the pain full and secondhand. All he can think is to get this body as far away from the other as fast as he can. Something rattles off the counter and clatters to the floor behind him. 

Those blue eyes watch him, weariness and fear starting to morph into confusion. “Brock?” 

It’s not his name. It’s the name of the evil conscious pushing back at him. He hates it. Hates the thoughts he can feel pressing against his mind. 

“I’m so sorry.” He tries to say, but he doesn’t have enough control over himself. He knows that he is showing his presence, bled black eyes and words spoken in tongues. 

The man stares at him, takes a step back and sways.

He tries to squash everything back down, tries to rein himself back into this body. When he speaks again he can hear words, halting, not perfect, but still in a language recognisable to humans. “I’m sorry.” 

The man blinks at him, but doesn’t back up any further. He wipes at the blood dripping from his nose again. Narrowing his eyes slightly, more in curiosity than challenge. “You’re not Brock.” 

He shakes his head—shakes  _ Brock’s _ head—but doesn’t offer anything else in way of explanation. 

Squinting at him, wiping blood off his face again, the man asks “Who are you then?” 

That’s the tricky question, he realises, he has been so long without a name that he can’t remember what it might have once been. In the end he just shrugs. 

The man scoffs, then winces when it pulls at all the hurt spots on him. After a while he just shakes his head. “Well, whoever you are, if you aren’t here to finish the job, then you wanna hand me some of that paper towel? Gotta clean up.” 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, meaning it with every fibre of his being, that which was his and that which he’d stolen. He does reach for the roll of paper towels that the man pointed out, holding it out to him. 

He watches as the man pulls a few sheets free and holds them to his face. “Well that’s a change from Brock, at least. What are you then? Some kind of ghost or spirit? Angel?” 

“Angels need permission to take a host,” he replies, almost automatically, fixated on the man as he mops the blood of his face, dropping the soiled paper towel into the bin before grabbing another sheet. “And ghost possession also has to be invited in some way.”

Peering at him around a wad of paper towel the man gives him a skeptical look, like he knows exactly what he’s inferring, but doesn’t believe it. “Well, whatever you are, if you’re going to hang around, you gonna make yourself useful?” 

///

Being human is something that he missed. He didn’t realise just how much he missed it until he gets to wear a meat suit again and play human. The fact that the man, Steve, was so blasé about his existence doesn’t sit quite right with him, but then he could hear the steady thrum of  _ I’m going to kill that little bitch _ coming from Brock’s conscience. Maybe Steve knows that too, and decided that demon or no, if he isn’t actively trying to kill him, it isn’t so bad. 

He settles into this body, this borrowed existence and does his best to ignore the way that Brock tries to fight back, the vitriol he spits. He has too strong a hold over this body that he isn’t worried. 

He helps Steve clean up, then attempts to clean up the kitchen, set things back to rights while Steve leaves, saying something about changing his clothes. When he comes back, clean, bloodless clothes on, he looks a little surprised to see him. “You’re still here?” 

He nods, harder than he needs to in his eagerness to convey that he doesn’t plan on going anywhere for a long time. He can’t leave, not while his host is plotting murder. It should be something that he’d revel in, a human doing despicable things to another human, but all he can think about is the look of scared defiance on Steve’s face, the blood that was all over him, and the blue of his eyes in that first moment of seeing him. He doesn’t want to see that snuffed out of existence. 

He thinks that he might be a terrible demon. 

///

A day passes, then another, soon a whole week. Somewhere around day three, he remembers the name he used to have as a human. He tells Steve his name used to be Tony, and Steve looks happy, whether it is for him remembering, or simply because now he has something to call him. He knows that there is power in names, knows that Steve could use it against him, but he doesn’t think he will. Even if he does, it’s only a contraction of his first name, and not his full name. 

There’s still a pinched expression on Steve’s face most days when he looks at Tony, whether it is due to the knowledge of what Tony is, or because he’s wearing the face of Brock Rumlow, he isn’t quite sure. 

Tony knows that he’s meant to be doing other things, that he is one of the chosen to start the assault of earth, but every moment of domesticity with Steve makes him forget a little more. It becomes easier to just be, to enjoy the moments with Steve when he isn’t looking at Tony like he isn’t sure who he is. Some days he catches Steve looking at him like he might still be Rumlow, a sense of wariness in his gaze. 

He suggests maybe he should grow a moustache, so Steve can tell the difference, or perhaps wear some glasses, and it makes Steve laugh. It’s the first time he hears Steve laugh, and he decides then, all other missions be damned, this is his new purpose in life. 

He does grow a moustache, something about it feels right and familiar, like perhaps he had one in his human life. It takes the pinched expression out of Steve’s glances at him, and that’s the most important thing. 

The days slip into weeks, and Tony almost forgets why he was here in the first place, all he can think about is Steve, it’s all he can focus on, he’s sure that this level of infatuation is supposed to be beyond him. Demons aren’t meant to be able to love, he’s sure of that, it’s part of being damned. 

Except one night, when Steve is showing him movies that he likes, and they are sitting on the couch together and Steve slumps against his side, he feels heat bloom in his chest and stomach, feels his damned heart beat faster. He puts his arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulls him close and he hopes for an eternity of this. 

Inside his head, Rumlow screams murder, though Tony has gotten better at blocking that sound out. 

///

It’s a couple weeks later when he’s lying with out in the small backyard behind Steve’s house, his head in Steve’s lap that he catches himself staring at the small crescent shaped scar on Steve’s chin. It’s not the first scar he’s noticed, and certainly not the first injury, though the bruises Rumlow had left before Tony got there had faded now, the split lip healed. 

“Why didn’t you leave?” he asks, watching the rise and fall of Steve’s chest above him, watching the way that he tenses at the question. 

“And go where?” Steve replies shortly. “I’ve got no family. No friends that aren’t his first. No money, nothing.” 

He thinks about the myriad of medications he sees Steve take at various times throughout the day, thinks about the way his skin stretches over his ribs, crooked spine and butterfly shoulder blades, and he thinks that yes, Steve is trapped here just as much as he was trapped in hell. This is a chance for both of them to escape. 

He reaches up, touches his fingertips to Steve’s cheek, traces the line of his jaw with his thumb. “I won’t let him hurt you again.” 

He whispers it like a promise to himself and to Steve. This one beautiful beacon of light and hope and he’ll do everything in his power to make sure it burns bright and for a long time. 

///

The problem with taking over someone else’s life is that people from their life will eventually notice. Usually, demons don’t care about that, they don’t care about the ties they sever or the meetings they miss. They don’t care about going to work or making appointments or hanging out with the guys on a Friday night. 

Tony doesn’t care about Rumlow’s life, or his friends, but he cares too much about Steve. He knows that he should have left that first day, disappeared and gone about his mission, but he didn’t. He didn’t leave, he stayed with Steve and called in sick from work, and made the most of every day that he could. 

They spend days together, either watching movies or hanging out in the tiny backyard. When Steve’s bruises fade they go out, go to markets, get coffees. Every smile that Steve gives him, Tony savours. Every laugh he cherishes. He wants nothing more than to see Steve happy. 

He thinks it’s love. Might have been from the very first moment he saw Steve. He wants to tell him. 

It’s Steve that says it first though. One night, when Steve’s lying against his chest, he whispers the words across his skin. 

“Tony, I think I love you.” 

He holds Steve tight, presses kisses into his hair, pulls him closer and presses kisses to his face, his lips. 

“I think I love you too,” he whispers back, stroking Steve’s temple with the backs of his fingers, watching the smile bloom across his lips. 

Steve shifts, kneeling over him, straddling his hips, hands on his chest. “Don’t leave me,” he whispers into the darkness between them.

“I won’t,” Tony whispers back, holding him close.  _ Never, _ he thinks,  _ I won’t leave you. _

It’s a promise he means to keep. 

///

The problem with taking over someone else’s life is that the people in that person’s life surely notice. Tony got complacent, he knows that. The time he had with Steve he should have been using to get them both out of there, to find somewhere safe for Steve to live. They should have left. 

They had been going to. They could leave the country, go somewhere else entirely. Tony liked that idea. Steve couldn’t though, he didn’t have a passport, couldn’t get very far without it. It was something they were working on when Tony gets home one day from running errands. 

There’s a man in the house. Someone that Tony doesn’t know, but he stands there in the kitchen, leaning casually against the island like he’s allowed to be there. The conscious screaming in the back of his mind calls a name,  _ Rollins _ , calls for help, but Tony squashes that noise back down again. Covers it with the burn of his own rage when he sees the way this intruder is looking at Steve, his intent so clear in his eyes that Tony doesn’t even have to see the way Steve tries to shrink back from him to know the man is bad. 

“Long time, no see, Brock,” Rollins drawls lazily when he notices Tony in the doorway. 

Hearing the old name makes Tony want to flinch, makes his skin crawl, because for weeks he hasn’t felt like the monster screaming inside his head. He’s been Tony, who loves Steve and would do anything to protect him. He doesn’t know what to say to Rollins, what Rumlow would say, so he tries to make the face he’s wearing smile. It feels like a grimace. 

“Where have you been, man?” Rollins asks again, eyes narrowing suspiciously. 

“He’s been sick,” Steve cuts in, voice wavering on the lie. “Stomach bug that went around the neighbourhood.” 

Rollins keeps looking at Tony, as though Steve hadn’t said a thing. “We missed you at the game the other night. Thought you and Stevie were going to come over to hang out.” 

The way he says Steve’s name makes Tony’s skin crawl. Deep in Rumlow’s consciousness, Tony can feel something rotten and horrid, memories that he doesn’t want to look at; memories of too many hands touching Steve. It makes bile rise in the back of his throat. 

Rollins smiles, there is something wicked about it. It makes Tony’s borrowed skin crawl; he didn’t think he’d find worse evil outside of hell. 

“We could hang out now,” Rollins says suggestively. 

Steve flinches, taking a step back, but he’s pulled up short when Rollins reaches out and grabs his wrist. Panic flashes in Steve’s eyes, but even without it, Tony can see it all playing out in Rumlow’s memories. Rollins pushing bruises into Steve’s skin, pushing  _ other things _ into him. Rumlow holding Steve down with a hand around his throat. 

Tony sees red, he feels his anger grow and swell, burning through the memories, burning right through his borrowed body. He’s across the kitchen in a few steps, grabbing Rollins’ arm and wrenching him away from Steve, closing a hand around Rollins throat, digging his fingers in tight, just to see Rollins panic. Just to see how he likes getting bruised up and hurt. 

“Don’t you touch him!” Tony spits, feeling his anger bleed his eyes black, losing control of his carefully woven cover. 

Rollins’ eyes bug out, fear flashes across his face, hands scrabbling at Tony’s fingers, trying to pry them free. Distantly, Tony is aware that Steve is saying his name, his real name, pulling at Tony’s shirt. He lets go of Rollins, sees him crumple against the kitchen bench, and turns towards Steve, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and holding him close. 

He wants to whisk Steve away to the bedroom, strip him down and check him over to make sure that Rollins didn’t hurt him. Survey his body for any damage, soothe any hurts, smother him with love. 

Rollins leaves, glaring at Tony as he does, spitting venomous words at both him and Steve. 

Later, Tony will realise what a grave mistake he made, showing his true self, but he couldn’t control it. In that moment, all that mattered was protecting Steve, getting Rollins away from him. 

///

Steve goes missing. 

Tony gets back from collecting the mail, Steve’s passport clutched carefully in his hand, and the house is empty. 

The glass pane in the front door is smashed, there is glass spread across the entry floor. Tony’s blood runs cold, he doesn’t ever remember feeling fear like this. 

He runs through the house, calling for Steve, but there is no answer. 

There’s blood on the kitchen floor. 

///

When he sees Steve there’s such a flood of relief that he can’t even think. Can’t focus on anything except getting to him, checking him over, making sure he’s safe. Too late he hears Steve hoarse warnings to stay away. Too late he realises the situation for what it is. Too late he notices the men, the priest, the chalk lines in the ceiling that catch him in a devil’s trap. 

It doesn’t matter how much he fights, how hard he claws and spits and yells at them, he’s bound fast, and he can only watch with an ever increasing sense of dread as the priest starts chanting. He’s heard it before, felt this pain before, but it’s so much worse this time; because this time Steve’s there. 

This time Steve’s watching, screaming his name, pleading with them to let him go. There’s two men holding him back, but he fights, small and scrappy, using a lot of the tricks that Tony taught him. It isn’t enough though. Through his own agony, Tony sees Rollins cuff Steve across the head so hard Steve goes limp in their grasp. 

The priest finishes the chant, Tony feels himself ripped out of Rumlow, feels the tattered shreds of his existence pulled away from the solid form of his host. Feels the pain of dying all over again. 

Too late Steve lifts his head and calls his name again. He can see the tears streaming through the blood and dirt that covers Steve’s face. Knows that if he had eyes he’d be crying too. 

The last shred of him is yanked free from Rumlow, the last tether severing just as he hears Rumlow’s thoughts push back into the forefront of his conscience. Hears the threat he’d heard in the background of every day he’d been wearing that body. 

_ I’m going to kill that little bitch. _

He’s still screaming Steve’s name with his inhuman lungs when he’s dragged back down to hell. 

///

An eternity passes. Minutes pass. Tony has no way to gauge how long he’s been back down in hell. It doesn’t matter. Be it years, days, minutes or seconds, any amount of time makes him too late. 

Too late to save Steve. 

He knows that, feels the ache of that knowledge in his damned heart. Knows that Steve is dead, probably was within hours of Tony getting sent back to hell. He also knows that Steve won’t be joining him down here. No, Steve had a one way ticket to the other place. 

When he finally gets back to earth, finally gets sent on another mission he searches, searches until he sees him. He slips back into Rumlow like an old suit, steps right back in and squashes every part of his screaming conscious down. 

It is luck more than design that puts him in the same place as Rollins, but Tony isn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. The gun is a nice touch, tucked into the holster against Rumlow’s ribs. It takes little effort to reach for it, to flick the safety off and level it at Rollin’s head. He takes a moment to look at this man, the man who had thought he had a right to touch Steve, thought he had the right to keep breathing after he had. 

Tony smiles viciously when Rollins sees the gun pointed straight at him, lets his eyes bleed black so Rollins knows exactly who he is. He doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the trigger. 

In that short moment that it takes Rollins to die, to a soundtrack of other people screaming, Tony tells him, “That was for Steve.” 

He doesn’t pay any attention to the people around him. He takes a deep breath, lets himself have one moment to enjoy being human, one moment to think about Steve’s smile, the taste of his lips, the way it had felt to hold him. He lets himself have one moment to remember love, then turns the gun on Rumlow. 

“See you in hell,” he promises. 

And pulls the trigger. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Warnings (SPOILERS):
> 
> Tony is a demon who is sent to earth on a mission, he finds a body to possess. The body just so happens to belong to Brock Rumlow. When Tony takes control, he discovers that Rumlow had been in the process of beating his partner, Steve.  
> While Tony is in control of Rumlow's body, Rumlow's consciousness makes a series of threats of killing Steve.  
> There is a heavy implication of rape/non con with Rumlow "sharing" Steve with his friends.  
> When Tony gets exorcised it is heavily implied that Steve is murdered by Rumlow.  
> Tony then revenge kills Rollins and Rumlow (forced suicide).


End file.
